No Tomorrow
by Zyvira
Summary: He was a pureblood whose family were supporters of the Dark Lord, she was a Muggleborn who was a supporter of the man he was trying to kill. / Sixth Year. One-shot. Complete.


**AN.** A little one shot that presented itself during a particularly stormy day while I was at work, listening to a song, and pretending I didn't have anything to be doing. As you do.

Unbeta'd, written in an emotionally fuelled five hours with one song playing on repeat.

I would call this vaguely movie-canon-compliant, if you allowed me a generous helping of artistic license.

Disclaimer: The usual, anything you recognize isn't mine.

Song for Thought: Mad World - Gary Jules ft Michael Andrews

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Beads of condensation crawled down the window as the rain pelted furiously against the glass. The wind howled and seemed to seep through the seams of the age-old castle, slipping through cracks and under doors and into bones. The heat of the dancing flames in the grate made no difference to the chilly draft, but even if it did, the blond would not have noticed.

There was very little that would pull Draco Malfoy from his thoughts at a time like this. Not that he knew what the time was – the dungeons were not particularly conducive to natural light that may have assisted him in gauging the time, if he had been curious enough to ponder it. The time was not particularly on his list of priorities.

With neither a sigh nor a blink, the blond stood from his seemingly casual position on the couch. A quick glance around showed no one to witness his blank stare into nothing. Scowling slightly, he turned on his heel and left the Slytherin common room, long pale fingers gripping his wand tightly as he walked.

This would not be an impossible task, he scolded himself. He could do this, if not for his so-called loyalty then at least for his life. He had no doubt failure would cost his own existence.

His footsteps made no sound as he made his way to the Room of Requirement, a determined glint in his stormy grey eyes. He did not even bother to cast a _Lumos_ to aid his steps, having walked this path too many times during the day and night. Even the portraits no longer shuffled restlessly or demanded to know where he was going at this time. Draco knew it would be dangerous if the portraits decided to gossip amongst themselves about the Malfoy heir roaming about the castle, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Draco Malfoy cared very little about very many things.

The perpetual frown on his face only deepened as he turned the final corner, already preparing his mind for his usual request to the Room. Pausing in front of the blank wall, Draco's lips shaped the words in his thoughts, his eyes closed as he resigned himself for another night of attempting to carry out his plan.

On paper, it was a good plan. No one would suspect he would dream to think up such a plan, much less be able to carry it out. He had seen the look of shuttered terror in his mother's eyes as he voiced his idea; arrogant boy that he was, he paid no attention to his mother's quiet anxiety, and instead basked in the murmurs of the other Death Eaters as they considered his plan.

The younger Malfoy was now starting to see what could have caused that look on his mother's face—the Dark Lord was not forgiving. The visit from Wormtail reminding him of the Dark Lord's impatience had confirmed that. So Draco had thrown a bratty tantrum and raged at the Dark Lord's servant—no one ever really took Wormtail seriously—only for the rat to report his behaviour to the Dark Lord. The resulting punishment had caused Draco to hastily act on another plan: the cursed necklace. He hadn't really expected it to work, but the resulting casualty in an unexpected victim had rattled him. Katie Bell was not supposed to get in the way.

The accident had strengthened his resolve. Only one person needed to die; that was his only mission.

The frown on his face deepened as he opened his eyes, the heavy wooden door materialising on the blank brick wall in front of him. Still gripping his wand tightly, he reached up with his other hand to open the door, the hinges sighing softly as though welcoming him once again.

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She tried not to notice that this was the _n_ th time she had seen him walking in the opposite direction of the Great Hall after classes. While the students meandered their way to the Hall for dinner, he had been steadfastly ignoring the general flow of the student populace in favour of climbing the grand staircase. She was not actively trying to keep an eye on him, but it was beyond odd.

For one, his Common Room was in the dungeons; if he was headed there, he would be taking a different staircase bound for the underground sections of the castle. If he had been wanting an empty classroom to study in, he could use a spare dungeon; surely Snape would be far more accommodating than any other teacher whose classrooms were in the higher floors. Hermione also knew he would not be going to the library, as she had never seen him there during her evening sessions.

She tried not to think about it, really she did. She had no interest in Malfoy, not like Harry and his obsession with his theory that Malfoy had been inducted into the Death Eater ranks. But when her best friend continually spouted such theories, and with Malfoy behaving oddly, Hermione couldn't help collecting more facts. It was the researcher in her. If anything, she wanted to _disprove_ the Death Eater theory—because let's face it, that was a ridiculous theory—but even she couldn't help the niggling feeling that something was going on with Malfoy.

But she wouldn't be telling Harry that, not if it would only feed oil to an already-blazing fire.

Besides, what could Malfoy _do_ , really? Admittedly he was quite intelligent; in the previous years, he had been second to her in most of their classes, with Potions being his only advantage. Hermione strongly believed it was due to Snape's favouritism for the smartest member of his House and the only Slytherin who stood a chance against Hermione in the academic department. It used to grate against her, but she had instead used it to pour even more effort into Potions, determined to topple Malfoy through sheer work alone.

It seemed even Potions was not interesting enough for Malfoy recently, and there were occasions that she had noticed a discomfited glare from the Potions professor towards a bowed blond head that was pointedly not meeting his eyes.

But Hermione was not making a tally in her head about Malfoy's new oddities. She refused to jump to conclusions like Harry, who was becoming more and more Malfoy-obsessed by the day. Hermione was a researcher; she did not accept conclusions without substantial evidence. She would just continue with her evening routine, thank you very much. The further Malfoy kept his distance from her, the better her life would be.

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It was dead.

After multiple attempts, the bird had been returned, its lifeless feathered body neatly placed in the middle of the Cabinet, its spindly little legs carefully tucked in and little eyes closed. If Draco so desired, he could pretend it was only asleep, perhaps dreaming of flying and freedom and an endless sky.

That was what he would dream of, if he was still capable of dreaming. Draco had lost many things in the last few months, and he could not foresee any change to his circumstances. He had tried, over and over, to complete the complicated bit of magic required to fix the Cabinet, but what did he have to show for months' worth of lack of sleep, food, and coherent thought? A lifeless bird that, five minutes ago, had been alive and warm and full of life in his hand.

Failure, yet again.

Suddenly he couldn't stand seeing the bird, couldn't fight the feeling of hopeless desperation that bubbled in his chest. Stumbling, unsteady on his feet at the lightheaded feeling, Draco exited the Room and almost tripped down the stairs in his haste to put as much distance as he could between himself and the dead bird.

It shouldn't have affected him like that. It was a _bird_. His task involved killing a _person_. His own father would only call him weak, becoming sentimental over an animal. It was collateral damage—there would undoubtedly be _people_ harmed or killed, because that was war. Draco was a man now, a servant of the Dark Lord, and didn't he remember it was a privilege to serve the Dark Lord personally with this task?

Whispering the password to the Prefect's bathroom, the blond hunched over the sink as he tried to regain his breath, the pain in his chest almost excruciating. Lifting his deadened eyes to face himself and his guilt in the mirror, he could hardly recognize himself: his usually slick and shiny hair was damp with sweat and almost grimy, his face earning a new wrinkle every few days, his skin a sickly grey pallor.

The task had leeched the life from him. His fear of failure and subsequent death was what had fuelled him and kept him going through days and nights obsessing over the Cabinet. He was starting to think he would be dead whether or not he succeeded.

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The sea of faces blurred around her as her eyes gravitated towards him. He was at his table for dinner this evening, probably for the second time this week. Hermione idly wondered what had caused the change of routine, before determinedly shaking the thought from her mind. Bringing herself back to the conversation beside her, Hermione inwardly groaned when she realised Harry and Ron were discussing Malfoy. Again. They had discussed Malfoy more times than the blond had been present for dinner. She blamed Harry completely for her own sensitivity to Malfoy's comings and goings.

Glancing at the blond Slytherin again, she felt almost a literal jolt in her bones when a pair of cold grey eyes met her gaze. It had only been for a second before she quickly glanced down at her dinner in an attempt to make the eye contact accidental, but the chill in Malfoy's eyes affected her. There was no longer any contempt in them, none of the usual frisson of distaste and superiority that he reserved just for her. There was no mean gleam or snarky glint or teasing glimmer. There was no light at all in his eyes, as though there was no longer any light in his soul.

That scared her more than his oddities, because a person who had eyes like that were capable of doing anything. Her little mental annotations regarding Malfoy's activities now could not correlate with any of her ideas, as her own theories were limited to what she knew of him. His eyes told her she did not know him at all. The researcher in her did not appreciate the idea of a complete wildcard, with no limitations or regulations or ballparks.

Pursing her lips, she peeked up from her roast potatoes to glance at him again. He was no longer looking in the direction of the Gryffindor table, and Hermione quickly pondered his posture. His shoulders were still straight and stiff—she had no doubt Malfoy would be on his death bed before he allowed himself to be caught slouching—but the fit of the black sweater he wore seemed to be a little loose. Was he losing weight? Now that she thought about it, his cheekbones were sharper and he was even paler, if that was possible. Malfoy looked positively gaunt, and she knew it wasn't because he was studying more; she knew he already had a detention due to not completing his homework.

Turning her head back to the boys' conversation next to her lest she be caught looking at Malfoy again, Hermione resolved to keep a keener eye out on him. She told herself it was only to assuage Harry's Death Eater theories; it wasn't at all because she cared about the dead look in his seventeen-year-old eyes.

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Snow was falling thick and fast as he trekked to the Three Broomsticks. Draco had left for the village after most of the others had gone, not being particularly keen on being anywhere near the shouts of joy and general happiness of students on a Hogsmeade weekend. He didn't know whether he felt guilty or simply desolate and antisocial; either way he had no patience for frivolity.

As he watched the two or three students ahead of him, the last in the group, he was reminded of this time last year being as carefree as they were. He, too, had laughed and enjoyed the idea of a break from the castle for some fun in the village. Sure, his idea of fun was different from theirs, but he had his friends and he was innocent and unburdened by the Mark on his arm.

His entire childhood, he had laughed at House Elves for their inconsequential existence as slaves, born and raised to serve wizards. Their lives were expendable, and he had enjoyed taunting Dobby and causing the elf to punish himself. He had snapped at incompetent shopkeepers for not serving him or treating him like the superior Malfoy he deemed himself to be. Now, nothing he did was for anything other than to serve, himself a slave to the Dark Lord's whims. He could almost picture the Dark Lord sitting casually at the head of the table in the Malfoy home, a smirk on his face as he watched Draco pour blood and sweat into working himself to death for a fruitless task.

It was a good thing Draco had not gone home for the holidays. While he had been learning Occlumency, he would not put it past the Dark Lord to notice the sliver of resentment in the youngest Malfoy.

Draco viciously quashed his train of thought. He would succeed and he would be rewarded. He was _not_ a House Elf. He was taking part in a war, and he would play his part well. He would be guaranteed immunity from the Dark Lord's anger in the future, because he had not only provided the plan, he would also execute it. Even his own aunt would defer to his superior cunning and skill. It _would_ work.

Shoulders tightening imperceptibly as he neared the Three Broomsticks, he focused on his task for the afternoon. A familiar flash of ginger, brown, and black hair distracted him briefly—the Wonder Trio had a table to themselves and were enjoying the break. Granger threw her head back and laughed at something someone was saying, her expression carefree and her eyes closed as she gave herself to the joy of laughter.

He had caught her eyes on him a couple of times over the last few weeks. Her gaze didn't hold the suspicion he felt from Potter, nor the hostility he felt from Weasley. She seemed merely curious, like he was a specimen she was wanting to research or perhaps a particularly interesting theory she was attempting to understand.

It was a look he had seen on her face in their shared classes, and it rankled him. He didn't _want_ to be understood. Furthermore, she was incredibly intelligent—a grudging admission on his part—and he was wary she would pick up something about his behaviour that could compromise his task. He _needed_ to succeed, and his success depended on no one suspecting his late night activities.

Scowling slightly as he continued on his way through the crowded pub, he forced himself to get back to the task on hand. The use of an Unforgivable required considerable concentration and willpower, and he could not afford any sort of distraction. He knew it was another slightly weak alternative to the cursed necklace, but he still needed to try, and he could not slip up this time.

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There were no thoughts of Malfoy when she heard what happened to Ron. There were really no thoughts of anything aside from _Not Ron_. Her latest essay for History of Magic had splotches of ink from when she had nearly upended her inkpot in her haste to get to the Hospital Wing. As her heart thudded in tandem with her footsteps as she ran, Hermione's mind played the words on loop.

 _Ron's been poisoned_.

Almost literally skidding to a halt outside the Hospital Wing, Hermione took in a deep breath to prepare herself for whatever she was about to see. Since she was eleven, she had seen her friends in various states of injury, but this was different. For months, the tingling feeling of a storm brewing in the distance had been setting her on edge. With Katie Bell and now Ron laid up in the Hospital Wing with injuries that were only a hair's breadth from being fatal, Hermione was beginning to feel the end of Hogwarts as she knew it.

There was someone out there actively trying to murder, and it was clear they did not care how many were caught in the dangerous web. Hermione didn't know if it was a scare tactic or failed attempts, but she was starting to see danger in every corner. The would-be murderer could be sharing a classroom with her, and while Hermione tried to defend her classmates from her own negative thoughts, she couldn't help thinking _what if_.

What if this was a person she knew? What if there was something Hermione saw or noticed that should have given her a hint? What if this person became successful? What if they _weren't_?

What if Katie Bell had held that necklace with her bare hands? What if Harry hadn't thought of the bezoar and found it in time?

Choking a sob and wiping an errant tear from her cheek, Hermione's eyes were fixed on Ron's prone form as she made her way to his bed. Harry was there; he reached for her as she came closer and hugged her tightly. With a small strangled sound, Hermione returned the embrace, her arms around Harry as she welcomed and reciprocated his emotional support. She was shaking slightly, and Harry's right shoulder would soon be damp from her tears, but it was extreme relief that she saw Ron's chest rise and fall as he breathed.

With a watery smile at Harry as he led her to a chair next to Ron, her knees finally buckled and she collapsed into the chair. Reaching out a shaking hand, she felt as though a part of her soul had eased slightly to be holding Ron's hand, confirming by touch that he was still alive and warm. Now that her immediate concern had been alleviated somewhat, her previous fears began to creep into her mind again.

 _Who was doing this, and who was next?_

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* * *

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It was the same but still different. While the bird had been small and dead, Katie Bell was a student and very much alive. While the bird had probably not consciously thought about things like parents and friends, Katie Bell was clearly well-loved as she had well-wishers and friends gathered around her, welcoming her back. While the bird had been unexceptional and somewhat inconsequential, Katie Bell had a name, a face, a personality, a life.

It was as though the world had slowed down around Draco as he was faced with her. She wouldn't remember anything about his involvement, of course—after all, it had been an Imperiused Rosmerta who had given Bell the necklace in the girls' bathroom at the Three Broomsticks. But still, _he_ knew. He had almost caused her death, and if he had succeeded, she would have died with no one knowing why or who; a mysterious death, a cold case that would be investigated and left open for years due to no substantial evidence.

He couldn't stay in the Great Hall any longer. Trying his hardest to tamp down on the feeling of panic closing his airways, Draco turned on his heel and fled. He reacted like he did to the death of the bird—running away and trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and his unwitting victim. Choking as he forced air down to his lungs, Draco reached up to loosen his school tie, long fingers struggling as he fought desperately against the knot.

The Prefect's bathroom was too far; Draco needed to breathe now. Stealing into the closest boys' bathroom, he had an ironic sense of deja vu as he leaned his arms over the sink, hysterical sobs erupting from his mouth as the guilt tore him inside. Still, he fought with his breath, forcing his lungs to work and his heart to beat, even as his chest constricted with the force of his anguish.

A sound behind him caused him to look up. He was momentarily distracted by his reflection—still gaunt, still grey and almost ghostly—when he noticed he had an audience. Damned Potter and his meddling ways.

Curses flew between the boys in the small bathroom. All the frustration, guilt, and fear caused Draco to miss more times than he should have, but he compensated with his aggressive duelling style. For the first time, Draco felt the stirrings of real murderous intent during a duel, mostly because he knew Potter would put two and two together. It was probably why Potter had followed him in the first place—he had seen Draco's facade slip in the Great Hall when confronted with Katie Bell's return.

Draco needed Potter to keep silent; it would be easiest if Potter was dead. Draco had some experience with the Imperius Curse, but he did not believe he possessed the sheer willpower to use the Killing Curse in his current emotional and mental state. He was only going to warn Potter about what he, Draco, could and would do if Potter ratted him out. He had been gearing up for the Cruciatus when he felt Potter's spell hit and he was knocked down.

It was as though his torso had been ripped open. The gashes were deep and burning, and he could feel his blood seep through his shirt and run down his sides. The bathroom floor had become flooded during their duel, the cold water numbing his back as he lay spread-eagled on the floor, but it was the heat of the blood that hurt the most. The pain was so intense it almost made him delirious; he couldn't even think to move his arms or legs or any part of his body.

A part of Draco was looking forward to dying. At least he would be free.

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She didn't know why she was here. She felt it a bit of a grim parody of a few weeks ago when she had run from Gryffindor Tower at the news of Ron's poisoning, clutching a stitch in her side and not even caring. Draco Malfoy was not Ron, he wasn't even a friend, and yet she had come to his bedside when she found out what happened. Maybe she felt guilty for the way Harry had reacted, because while Malfoy was usually antagonistic towards her and her friends, no one deserved that spell. Even Harry was a ball of guilty and nervous energy upstairs in their common room. Malfoy may have been a bully, but he didn't deserve to die like that.

Hermione's cinnamon eyes noted the bandages wrapped around Malfoy's chest, thicker and yet already seeping blood. His already pale skin was even more greyed out by the loss of blood. He looked like he was already dead, lying so still and his chest hardly moving.

She convinced herself she needed proof that he was alive, for her own peace of mind. She needed to convince herself that her best friend was not capable of deliberately injuring someone to that extent, not even Malfoy. There was enough deliberate near-fatal injuries going on around her without her best friend being accused of causing one.

Hesitantly, Hermione's fingers carefully caressed Malfoy's hand. His skin was smooth and cool like marble, and she was vaguely reminded of the spate of Petrified students in her second year. They had been like the statues she had visited in the museums, stone-cold and flawlessly smooth. Malfoy's hand was similar, except his fingers moved slightly at the unexpected touch and Hermione's eyes flew to his face.

She had just caught the slight glimmer of his eyes before they fluttered shut again, closing like a pair of heavy curtains over a stage. There were no signs of recognition in his face, and considering he had not moved his hands away from hers, Hermione figured he was not fully conscious. She let out a breath she had not realised she had been holding since Malfoy twitched.

Hermione could justify her presence here as due to being guilty on Harry's behalf, but she knew Malfoy wouldn't appreciate the gesture. In fact, he would probably be so disgusted with being so close to her Muggleborn germs that she wouldn't be surprised if he sat straight up despite his injuries and hexed her all the way out the door of the Hospital Wing.

She wasn't the brightest witch of her age for nothing—if anyone saw Hermione by Malfoy's side for an hour that night, she would have had a barrage of reasons for staying, and she would have argued her point until they had no choice but to concede. But really, Hermione herself didn't know what compelled her to stay as long as she did, watching his chest rise and fall steadily and his light eyelashes flutter slightly as he dreamed.

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Every time he saw her, he felt the ghost of warmth on his hand like butterfly wings. It had been months since he had been in the Hospital Wing suffering from Potter's curse, but still the memory of her hand touching his was fresh in his mind and on his skin. He should have been repulsed and disgusted, and it was the world's biggest slap in his face that he craved more of her touch.

It was ironic that aside from his mother, the only person who had touched him without expecting anything back was her. She had come when he was unconscious and lent her support in the way she knew how. Draco could say she came because she felt guilty on behalf of Golden Boy Potter—who received barely a rap on his knuckles for the curse he threw—but she had not stayed to wait for his forgiveness.

He still caught her looking at him every now and then, always followed by a quick aversion of her gaze as though she didn't want him to know. How could he not, though, when the memory of her skin was still on his?

They never talked about it; neither of them were exactly on speaking terms, and that wasn't about to change. It caused confusion in Draco: how could she, a Mudblood, touch him despite the antagonism he had displayed towards her for the last six years of their lives? Furthermore, how could he have _enjoyed_ it as much as he did? The image of Granger's concerned face looming over his while he was semi-conscious was burned into his retinas. He had never felt such concern towards him from someone else other than the woman who birthed him.

He tried to pretend nothing had changed, and continued about his efforts on the task. Let her think he had been completely unconscious and therefore unwitting about her being by his bedside while he had been injured. He wouldn't even know what to say to her if she had tried talking about it, so it was just as well. Draco needed to concentrate on his task, not on why Muggleborn Granger was affecting him so.

Snow was falling heavily as he gazed out the Astronomy Tower. The familiar lines of the landscape was indistinguishable under all the white, and it was with a cold sense of detachment that Draco watched the night around him. He was getting closer and closer to fixing the Cabinet; he could feel it. He still had one more bird he could experiment with, but he had to time it just right.

He could feel the anxiety gnaw on his marrow, but he deadened the oncoming guilt, like the snow blurred the shapes of the grounds. It was too late to change anything now, his path had been set since he was born and he was only fulfilling his destiny. Draco had to keep repeating this to himself—he couldn't afford to fall apart, not now that he was so close to completion. Just a little longer and he would be done, free, and granted immunity. That was all he wanted.

The aggressive thoughts circling his mind were interrupted by the clatter of footsteps behind him. He contemplated hiding, before internally shrugging. It didn't matter if he was caught by a student or a teacher; Draco's care factor for anything related to this school had lessened over the months until it was practically nonexistent. In a few short weeks or perhaps even days, there would be nothing left for him in this castle. Let the chips fall where it may.

He didn't need to turn his head to know it was her—the butterfly wings of warmth were back on his hand, pulsing fleetingly before he forcibly crushed the feeling from travelling up his arm and into his chest, where it could cause more damage.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her glance at him, open her mouth to say something, before abruptly closing it again and turning away from him. He felt the metal bar on which he rested his hands vibrate slightly as she copied his stance and placed her own gloved palms on the railing. There was a heavy silence as they both stared out into the snowstorm.

He knew she wanted to say something, or maybe she wanted him to say something, but there was nothing left to be said. He was a pureblood whose family were supporters of the Dark Lord, she was a Muggleborn who was a supporter of the man he was trying to kill. They were as different from each other as oil and water, and nothing was going to change that, not her ideology, not her intelligence, not her warmth and unconditional compassion.

"I meant what I said, you know." He didn't turn his head to look at her, but he saw out of the corner of his eye that her face turned towards him slightly. Good, she was listening. She needed to hear this, because it was going to be the only thing he would ever say to her that was not a slur or an insult. "I meant what I said when I told you to keep your bushy head down."

Without another word or a glance, he let go of the rail, turned, and walked away.

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End file.
